The Executioner
by loveretriever
Summary: Macnair's first time in Azkaban following the fall of the Dark Lord circa 1980. No pairing - written for a prompt. Rated for somewhat graphic detail, violence and gore, and language. This is similar to my usual style, just add more gore and blood instead of fluff


Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry forum - History of Magic, Assignment #3.

I love Macnair for some reason. He's an interesting study. I think the thing I love most about him is his job as an executioner. I always picture him as bored of games, I don't know why. He's always a disinterested character in my mind. One who, surprisingly, doesn't bug me often. (Which is probably why I almost missed the deadline for this piece...)

Word count: 1235

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I chuckle to myself. It is cold. I shiver, teeth chattering so hard I sound like I'm laughing. I must be mad, completely bonkers. Off my rocker. To openly laugh in Azkaban prison.

It is 1980. The year of Our Lord's Fall. I am taken in November. For questioning. Or so they say. They interrogate me, mild torture compared to my Lord's game of Round Robin Crucio, and eventually imprison me in February of 1981.

I smile, seeing recognizable faces. Lestrange and his wife, Karkaroff, Crouch, Jr., among others - all old friends. I am not surprised to see a long row of Death Eaters sitting sullen in their individual cells. We are all here for the same reason. Treason and murder. Kidnappings and Muggle disappearances. Some of us have revealed magic to Muggles. 'Course, all them Muggles be dead. I giggle at that thought, causing the guards to eye me warily.

We are all here because of our madness. Each one of us has committed sins. Crimes that are as long in list-form as the number of murders on each of our hands.

I am pushed roughly into my cell, the door slamming forcefully behind me. Keys slip into the lock and I know that this is where my human guards leave me. The real guards of Azkaban are not so kind. My hands and legs, at least, are not shackled. Though this means little to me.

My fingers ache for an axe handle or the smooth wood of my wand. I know some wandless magic, though I am not that skilled. I prefer hand to hand combat, thank you very much. I'm not very high and mighty. Certainly not worldly or full of airs. I'm a Macnair, I know my place. I'm but a lowly Pureblood, born to serve and willing to kill. The Dark Lord knows the bounds of my servitude. I serve those who let me vent my vicious nature without restraint. As long as blood taints my hands, I am happy to do the bidding of my fickle Master. I serve that which I crave - power and freedom.

Because of my nature, I, alone, in this pit of Hell, am expendable. And I know it.

The first time I sense the guards, I feel cold. Chilled to the bone. The Dementors leer at us, passing by each cell slowly as if to taste our fear, our despair. Our anguish feeds them and makes them happy. Makes them strong.

I try to prevent my worst fears from giving them a hold over me. I try and fail, memories surging each time they inch closer and closer to my cell.

I whimper, fearful that they'll enter, slipping through the thin metal bars, and suck my soul out through my brain. I know it's a stupid fear, but I hate jelly. I don't want to know if under that ghastly hood the Dementors have jellyfish lips.

When I was little, my Great-Aunt Bertha made me kiss her hand every time she came to visit. Then, she'd kiss our heads. Right in the middle of our forehead. She had jelly lips. Each time she'd kiss us, her great big lips held a suction force that scared the heebie-jeebies out of our bellies. I never could stand having her touch me like that. So I'd duck and she'd miss me. I'd get the scolding of a lifetime, but once was enough to convince me that anything was better than the feel of jelly. I hate jelly like the first day I was made to bow and serve.

The Dementors finally glide by and I feel free again. My mind is able to think of other things. I count off in my head who is held in Azkaban prison.

Lestrange, his wife, his brother, Karkaroff, who will be released soon, Dolohov, Rookwood, Crouch, Jr., although the poor bloke will soon die, if the rumours are true that he's ill, Nott, Goyle, Crabbe, they weren't smart enough like Malfoy to lie and evade detection. I know there are others, but these are the people on my floor. I stop, exhausted. I fall into a dreamlike sleep, caught in limbo between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

I awaken. I don't know what time it is, but it doesn't matter. On this dreary island, it is always night. Fog and coldness surrounds me completely. Three Dementors are huddled outside my cell. They are the source of the fog and dread chill, which they wear like a cloak. Their real black cloaks are only holding their non-corporeal forms together. Or so I like to believe. It helps to make them less scary if I think they are just ghosts. Non-existent bodies. I struggle to think straight. Their presence presses on my mind, forcing me to remember my mother.

She died when I was five, leaving me alone. She didn't die willingly, though I vividly remember her sick, twisted smile. My father killed her. Hacked her little alcohol-ridden body into tiny bits and pieces. A puzzle left for the investigators to muddle through. A trail that was supposed to lead them to me. My father's crazy arse wanted me to take the blame. No one would have believed him anyway. Everyone knew my father was the executioner for the local gang.

Still, I was lucky to have magic. I ran and ran until I found Lucius Malfoy. Or he found me. I'm never quite sure how it happened - I just know it DID happen. He offered me a way out. A Paradise presented on a Lucky Platter. A way out of misery and servitude. I never saw the silver rope of misery slipping over my head, nor the cold metal of servitude locking me in. An axe was pressed into my hand and that's all it took for me to be satisfied.

My tongue scrapes the roof of my mouth. I can still taste the blood on my dry lips. I am satisfied to be a killing machine. An expendable hit man.

I shall never tire of killing. I promise myself that if I make it out of here, if I make it out of Azkaban prison alive, I shall seek vengeance. My axe demands blood. My bones demand action. My fingers clamour to hold a weapon once more. And this time, there will be no mistakes.

I find it ironic that the Dementors remind me of my purpose. I am here to kill and revenge myself and my Masters. I seek to serve and relish in the blood of my victims. I am here to punish those who walk free.

For I am Macnair, the Executioner. And I am soon to be free from the madness of Hell. When I am walking amongst the Living, I shall remind him who has wronged me why I am to be feared.

I am Macnair, the crazy axe-wielding maniac. I demand a blood price. And it shall be paid.

I don't know what day it is. Or what time. I don't care.

I think of only one thing: the Master's will be done, and he shall reap all the profits.

Even the Dementors avoid me now.


End file.
